


touch me in the dark, and quiet these thoughts

by AkumaStrife



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Hand Jobs, Kink Meme Prompt Fill, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, but actually it's quite tender overall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 07:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16551959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkumaStrife/pseuds/AkumaStrife
Summary: Neil wonders, distant and idiotic, if Matt’s okay with this sort of thing next to everyone because his sense of family and loyalty and comfort and safety have gotten scrambled and fucked up through trauma and desperate coping mechanisms. Which, he supposes, can be said about all of them.(for the prompt "They’re all watching the movie. They’re not even going to notice.”)





	touch me in the dark, and quiet these thoughts

The only reason Neil really indulged the team in movie nights was because it was too dark for anyone to _watch_ them. Matt would reach with his large hands, would pout, and Neil could sit gingerly beside him and let himself be pulled in snug (too snug, sometimes, but Matt liked touch and he felt small and mean when he jerked away,) and no one could see it. Much anyway. Enough. Enough for Neil to pretend like everyone else was pretending not to stare. 

Matt is nothing if not predictable, even now—reaching for him, smiling at him, waiting for Neil to settle himself like a finicky cat in the oversized arm chair before looping an arm around his back—and that’s familiar enough to be comforting. 

Neil allows it. 

He allows the arm and then the press of Matt’s thigh against his. Allows, later, Matt leaning in to make a joke about the movie, and then staying close, his chin hooked on Neil’s shoulder. 

That’s acceptable. He can hear Matt breathe that way, and there’s something comforting about it he’s found over time—Matt breathing steady and easy, proof that he’s okay, that he’s alive and unharmed, even when intimate with someone like Neil. 

Neil even allows the heavy hand that eventually finds its way to his knee. Matt likes to do this, likes to stroke his thumb back and forth, as if subconscious. Neil likes that last bit best: Matt does it without thinking. It’s a caring action that’s an intrinsic part of him and thus not worth overthinking. It makes all this easier when Neil has little experience and finds himself, frustratingly, suspicious of the most innocent gestures. 

He’s less certain about the gentle slide of Matt’s hand higher, fingers expanding slightly over the widest part of Neil’s thigh. He swallows, hears his throat click, hears Matt’s breath slow and then stop all together, hears the explosions on the tv that much more sharply. They wait each other out, Matt’s hand still and patient, Neil not daring to breathe as half a dozen alternatives and ways this can be used against him run through his mind.

He glances around the living room. But everyone’s focused on the movie or looking at Exy playoff results on their phone (Kevin), or cramming popcorn down someone’s shirt (Allison, Nicky respectively.)

His eyes catch on Aaron’s, even in the dark. Aaron’s watching them, gaze narrowed, lip curled. There’s a challenge in his gaze, judgement in the rigid line of his spine even resting against the back of the couch

Neil’s body decides before his mind does, and he holds Aaron’s gaze as he forces his posture relaxed and leans his cheek against Matt’s. Matt starts breathing again. He clenches his toes against the carpet, and then lets his legs relax and… and fall open, just a little, not enough for anyone else to tell but just enough for Matt to feel and read as the consent he was waiting for. Matt presses a grin (a kiss) into his shoulder and his hand drifts up another few inches. 

Aaron scowls and jerks his attention back to the screen. 

Neil smiles small to himself, deeply triumphant.

It’s wiped away as Matt twists to softly kiss his neck.His exhale, soft and adoring, fans out across Neil’s throat, and all Neil can think is how many ways Matt could kill him like this, how many ways this puts him at a disadvantage, how many—

Matt’s hand sweeps down and then back up, higher, between his thighs, pressing sweetly with the heel of his palm where it’s warm and sensitive and too fucking close to the seam, and Neil’s only thinking, _oh god oh god oh my god._

His skin feels like when he was sick with a fever last month, all his nerves poised for _runrunrun_ except his legs are lead. It’s dark and the movie’s too loud and Dan shoves at Kevin and absolutely no one’s paying attention to them, but a wild part of Neil’s thoughts doesn’t understand how that can be true when he feels like his breath is too loud and stuttering. 

Matt smiles, kisses his neck again, and again, the arm around Neil’s bak tightening and his hand finding his waist to squeeze and tilt him in closer, off hand squeezing his inner thigh to help and Neil can’t help twisting onto his hip to face him and let Matt catch his mouth in a kiss. It’s always nice, and what’s more is anything’s better than the oversensitive way Matt’s lips felt against his throat. He still can’t deal with that, still can’t be fully comfortable with that—still fears how much it makes his blood _sing_ anyway. 

“Matt,” he warns, low. 

Matt smiles against his lips—Matt’s almost always smiling, he doesn’t understand it. “Shh, it’s okay. Not asking. But…” He kisses Neil harder, hands wandering in a way Neil can only compare to hunger. “They wouldn’t notice. They’re all watching the movie.”

Neil’s breath catches loud and rough, Matt kisses it right out of him. He can’t be—Matt’s not— _here_? Absolutely not.His gut squirms in discomfort, even if the rest of him squirms in something else. He has enough problems relaxing for this sort of thing without worrying about being quiet about it because they’re in a room full of their _team mates._

But then, Matt’s always been more comfortable around the group of them than Neil could ever hope to be. Matt’s always changing and dressing down in front of any number of them, before practices and games and otherwise. It doesn’t make him more willing, but at least it makes more sense to him. As a thing. He doubts their teammates would appreciate it much, but they’re not paying attention, and—

_It doesn’t matter_ , he tells himself fiercely, even when Matt kisses him so easy; dry and easy and not asking for more than Neil’s ever been willing to try. 

“What are you asking?” Neil whispers, cursing his traitorous tongue, his traitorous body. “What if I say no? What if I—“ but it fades because he’s not sure how he wouldn’t finished; _what if they catch us, what if I can’t, what if I say no and you get mad because sometimes I can’t?_

_“_ Then we don’t,” Matt says, like it’s so fucking easy, like it doesn’t matter to him, like it’s no big deal, enough though it has to be if he’s asking at all. It makes Neil irrationally angry for a moment, that Matt would ask and then not care, that Matt cares more about him than _this_ , that he can’t just be pushy and make the choice easy for Neil by taking all the variables away. “But, if you wanted to,” another kiss, another soft graze of his lips up Neil’s cheek, low behind his ear, back to his forehead in a move too tender to have here and now. His voice drops further, so low, so quiet, just the bare impression of an offer, tone shaking in either the effort of a whisper or _want, “_ I could make you feel good.” 

Neil wonders, distant and idiotic, if Matt’s okay with this sort of thing next to everyone because his sense of _family_ and _loyalty_ and _comfort_ and _safety_ have gotten scrambled and fucked up through trauma and desperate coping mechanisms. Which, he supposes, can be said about all of them and their messed up impulses.

But that’s not the only thing he’s wondering right now, and that’s dangerous. 

“How?” he asks. Maybe to put it off. Maybe to gather all the information. Maybe to tell Matt subconsciously to convince him. He hasn’t moved yet, hasn’t pushed Matt’s hands away, even now wanting the warmth Matt’s body puts out. 

“Slow and careful,” Matt answers dutifully, as he almost always does. Even when they don’t have an audience ( _jesus fucking christ, why is he letting this stunt go this far.)_

Matt stretches to snag the blanket from the back of the girls’ shared couch, grinning charming at Allison who whips a suspicious look at them and seems to be warring with the impulse to fight them for it. But she relents when Matt just says, “my guy’s cold.”

Neil shivers at _my._

Allison catches it, mistakes it for evidence, and nods imperiously. “We can’t have that.” And goes as far to reach over and tug at the corner of the blanket to make sure it tucks around Matt’s feet. 

“See?” Matt whispers to him. As if this proves anything. It absolutely doesn’t. Neil pinches the back of his hand under the blanket and Matt laughs, but doesn’t pull entirely away, just shifts down to somewhere safer and pets his thigh steadily until Neil relaxes grudgingly again. 

It _is_ better with the blanket, feels a little less like they’re dangerously _seen,_ even in the dark, even If they’re towards the back of the group, even if no one’s aware of anything outside the movie that Neil hasn’t absorbed any of. Matt wraps him up close and warm, the pair of them becoming hopelessly tangled with the lumpy knit blanket and it’s no different than times before when Neil’s been cold and weak and let Matt be clingy. No one would notice, if… if he could keep from making noise, could keep from reacting. 

He could manage that. Right? He’s kept still and silent at much worse, has endured torture without giving a sound. If Matt would like this—Matt’s big hand drifts higher again, always careful, always warm, but undoubtably eager—he doesn’t think it would be beyond his capabilities. 

He tries not to think about (to worry about) his ability to… perform, under these circumstances. He could fake it, perhaps, or play it up as a tease for later when they were truly alone, if Matt gets upset. 

He frowns at the realization he’s considering it, that he’s making plans for every possibility, and huffs when Matt kisses the frown from his expression until he’s soft and considering again. 

“Expectations?” Neil whispers. Their relationship has only gotten better for this question posed in times of uncertainty and negotiation. _What do you want,_ only produced ultimatums; _what do you like_ was a grab bag of Neil’s obvious inexperience and ignorance paired with Matt’s desires that Neil couldn’t always provide. This was much better, this gave them room for interpretation. 

“To make you feel good,” Matt repeats. “It’s been a long week.” 

Neil eases at that. That’s not so bad. That’s not wanting something specific, just the feeling, the parameters vague enough to encompass the real possibility that he might feel good but nothing really coming from it, so to speak. 

“You’ve done that, several ways,” Neil says. It’s not a no. It’s not a yes, either. But it’s an admission softer than he usually indulges.

Matt smiles at that, pleased, and Neil relaxing for making him such. “Let me show you again, then,” he offers. His hand drags up, under the blanket and over his sweats until he presses testing over Neil’s cock, cupping him more than anything. 

Air filters slow and endless through Neil’s teeth. He doesn’t move. That’s the lie he tells himself, anyway, when his thighs part infinitesimally. But Matt doesn’t push, doesn’t do anything else. He waits, lips pressing light along Neil’s jaw, uncaring of the way Neil’s hand have found themselves curled in Matt’s sleeves around his elbows, holding on and shaking slightly. 

“Okay?” Matt asks, soft as a sigh, even if desire hums in his tone. That _ping_ s more than anything: how much Matt wants this, when it does nothing for him. Being wanted, being desired, was never part of Neil’s plan, was never something he had experience with. Not like this, without strings or expectations, no ulterior motive other than affection and care for the simple act of it. It makes him tremble to face sometimes, and he finds himself leaning into it, and Matt, this time. 

When Neil says nothing, can’t find anything to say, Matt kisses his cheek and draws his hand away again. Dejected, clearly, but not upset. He settles in to pull Neil into a more appropriate cuddle and wrap his arms around Neil’s waist instead. It’s painfully honest and it makes Neil’s chest ache. 

He lets Matt get comfortable, pulls his legs up to rest his heels on the edge of the chair where it meets the rickety fold-out foot rest and tilting his knees into Matt’s. Curls in, to himself and into Matt. Gets comfortable, gets adjusted beneath the blanket and in Matt’s arms. Matt kisses his hair. He takes Matt’s hand in return, and carefully redirects his attempts to slot their fingers together to put Matt’s hand back in his lap. 

Matt’s breath catches. He stills for three seconds, giving Neil time to change his mind, and then wastes no time sliding his hand slowly under Neil’s waistband. The sweats are ragged and old, already a size too big before being stretched out, so Matt’s hand goes easy. He curls around Neil purposefully, but softens his grip when Neil’s not hard, doesn’t seem irritated by it, only adjusts his fingers and strokes Neil slow and achingly like a caress. 

Neil exhales in a huff, turning his head to tuck his nose under Matt’s chin, heart hammering but his muscles heavy and lethargic. His eyes, lids drooping, find the tv and he watches, but doesn’t take much in, just something else to focus on as Matt touches him indulgently and not pressing for anything more than just this. It’s nice. Warm and easy, and despite the occasional intrusive reminder that they’re not alone, it’s not as bad as he wondered. It’s mostly unhurried and Matt pressing kisses to his hair, his face, and patiently working him until his body gets with the program and his cock gets interested enough in the proceedings to make Neil’s face flush with the change in blood pressure. 

Matt’s steady breathing ticks up a half second after Neil’s does when desire finally, _finally_ flickers and curls maddeningly low in his gut, spreading like a poison to liquefy his muscles not unlike after a rough game. Matt hums in response to Neil hardening in his hand, pleased enough to make Neil blush to hear it so close. 

Neil’s lips part, he exhales, his face feels hot and his eyelashes fluttering in the heady flush of it. His heels slide an inch against the chair, and only then realizes how hard he’s been pressing his feet into the chair. He doesn’t have to. This isn’t some high stakes situation (it really is though—what if Nicky turns to tease them and _sees_ ,) and this isn’t the first time they’re done something like this (maybe not, but god if it doesn’t always feel like it, overwhelming and still new considering.)

He relaxes his feet, melting back into Matt’s chest, and it lets his knees tilt out as his hips angle up. Just a fraction before he remembers himself, remembers where they are, and feels Matt’s smile against his hair. 

“Good?” he whispers. 

Neil nods, leaning more into the curve of Matt’s shoulder and trusting it to brace him as he pants softly against Matt’s collarbone. A thumb skates over the head of his cock, smearing slickness, and Neil shivers. He feels like he’s been drugged. It isn’t… unpleasant. He has to come to that realization every time, has to make himself relax and remind his paranoia that he’s safe and he asked for this. 

He’s a little worried about having to _get up_ after this, with his legs like jelly and all of him ruffled, with the light coming on and maybe some of his awful teammates _knowing._ Disappointed to realize all at once in a half-conscious fog that like this he can’t have the same softness Matt often treats him to after they do this, won’t have the praise or the utterly selfless attention to make sure he’s okay and still feeling good, that he’s not overwhelmed. 

“You’re thinking,” Matt whispers, hand on his hip tightening and his other twisting abrupt on the next tug. It makes Neil’s breath catch hard and his brain wiped like a stick check to the gut. “You don’t have to.”

_Yes I do, I can’t turn it off,_ he wants to say. 

What comes out is a breathy and grateful, “O-okay.” Maybe he can’t, not all the way, but he trusts Matt enough to try to just enjoy this. 

“Good, ‘m glad,” Matt says. He keeps stroking Neil’s hip, refocuses his attention on working Neil towards satisfaction as slow and easy as possible, theoretically to help Neil handle it with their audience and keep him from getting too overwhelmed when publicly vulnerable. It’s thoughtful, it’s really sweet; it drives Neil a little crazy with a suffocating heat flaring painful in his chest as he squirms in Matt’s grip.

Matt shushes him, catches his mouth in a quick kiss before resettling Neil so to anyone else it might just look like he’d fallen asleep against Matt’s shoulder (not common, but also not unheard of.) He mumbles soft encouragement in Neil’s ear, and while that doesn’t help their act, it makes Neil sink down into the sensations of it all and lose any worry, any discomfort, he’d been dragging along. He shivers and forces his breathing quiet with all the training of a lifetime of crueler things, and there’s a small part of him not bogged down by chemical pleasure that’s viciously delighted to be using the awful skill he’d been taught for something uncomplicated and good like this here and now. 

That’s about all the braincells he has to devote to that, and soon enough he’s not thinking much at all except about the warm brush of Matt’s words against his ear, the warm press of his hands, the warm and stuttering tumble _down_. 

**Author's Note:**

> also on my tumblr, come say hi:  
> http://akumastrife.tumblr.com/post/179866252531/2-mattneil


End file.
